


this is so you'll know the sound (of someone who loves you on the ground)

by wonthetrade



Series: that girl is a goddamn problem [5]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 01:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10709478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonthetrade/pseuds/wonthetrade
Summary: Jack and Taylor Hall bond over being out of the playoffs.





	this is so you'll know the sound (of someone who loves you on the ground)

**Author's Note:**

> If you got here by searching yourself or someone you know, turn back now. It's for your own health and safety.

She takes the red-eye flight to Edmonton the day of cleanout for several reasons. A) She has the ticket already, bought the day the Oilers clinched. She’d been - hell, she _is_ \- happy for him, of course, but the sting of her own season being over hasn’t completely settled in yet. B) She needs to get out of Buffalo and the weight of her own guilt and disappointment before she drowns in it. C) Changing the ticket to go home instead would be cowardly, even though Connor would understand.

The clothing she packs is blessedly neutral, plain sweats and hoodies and shirts and snapbacks she can pull low over her eyes. She can’t even look at the Sabres logo right now without wanting to set something on fire, and USA gear has her perversely wishing that her season had ended even earlier so that she could have had some taste of victory this season.

The drive from Buffalo to Toronto gives her the peace she needs to stew, but the flight itself is marked by silent, angry tears and restless sleep, elevating her mood from bad to hellish. All Jack wants is sleep and silence, preferably for a month.

What she gets is Connor, who takes one look at her as she stumbles through the door and directs her to a shower and then bed, all without saying a word. That part surprises her because Connor’s preferred method of dealing with conflict is by talking things out. Jack, on the other hand, shuts down and deals with everything later, to varying degrees. It’s why she’s terrible at post-loss and exit interviews, because all she wants to do is push everything away until she’s emotionally ready to face the situation at hand. One of the things she expected was some sort of indignant pep talk because Connor’s a hypocrite who will scold her for putting too much pressure on herself and yet will do the same thing to himself.

Only he does nothing of the sort. So she sighs and snuggles into the warmth of him, grateful for the reprieve.

It doesn’t last long. In fact, it lasts until morning. Time zones being what they are, Jack sleeps in but still manages to wake up before Connor leaves for practice. She lingers in the doorway, watching him putter around and leave out ingredients for her smoothies. Her stomach lurches a little bit because a good girlfriend, a better girlfriend would go over there and congratulate him for the Art Ross, maybe go to her knees and blow him or something. And under different circumstances, she would. It’s just that right now she can’t move beyond her own weird mixture of apathy and inadequacy and rage, all of them churning together in her gut and making her feel so strangely removed from everything.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brightening as he catches sight of her. “I thought you’d sleep in more. Did you sleep okay?”

Jack shrugs. “As well as can be expected.” Which is the wrong thing to say because he frowns and shuffles closer, his hands coming up to cup her elbows.

When he looks at her, her boyfriend is gone, replaced by Connor in full-on Captain Mode. “Jack-”

Ugh. She shouldn’t have gotten out of bed. “You know better than to have this conversation with me right now, Davo,” she warns him, shrugging off his hands and trudging over to the blender.

“Jack, it’s not-”

 _It’s not your fault. It’s not on you._ Whatever variation, she doesn’t want to hear it. “Second warning, Davo. I really don’t want to talk about it.”

He makes a helpless, inarticulate noise behind her. “But you have to know-”

“Connor. Just shut up, okay? _Shut up._ ” The punnet of strawberries lands with a thump on the counter as she spins around, and something in her expression stops whatever he’s about to say. “I’m not ready to talk, not yet. So just...fucking _stop_. Go to practice.”

Connor looks so hurt and confused and she can’t deal with that, so she turns her back on him. Jack knows how taxing it can be dealing with her, how her fury can both burn and freeze at will. She’s difficult at the best of times and nearly impossible at the worst.

And she tries, she really does. But words  - emotional words, that is, because hockey words usually get through - really never seem to have an effect on her until after the fact. Her family and close friends have learned how to work around it, and for the most part Connor just seems to steamroll through it.

This isn’t one of those situations. Jack hears the front door shut quietly and allows her head to hang down briefly. She inhales, shudders a little bit, and then gets on with making the smoothie.

Time to mope.

* * *

Connor’s first instinct is to call Dylan, so he does. “Sup Davo?” she asks cheerfully. “Wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. Still excited?” They’d talked after Sunday’s game once he had a little time to himself. It had been mostly incoherent screaming and repetitions of, “oh my god.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing his forehead.

Her voice sharpens. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s...it’s Jack. She’s not...and she doesn’t want to talk, and…”

“Ah.” She sounds relieved. “That’s just Jack being Jack though. You know she always needs a little time. The way their season ended was pretty tough.”

He knows these things. He watched them flame out after their bye week, despite Jack’s desperate attempts to pull them back from the brink. He’s heard the stupid rumors of tensions running high between teammates, knows that all it does is just add to her already incredible burden. Still, he’s never seen her like this and he says so. “I know she’s happy for us. That she’s happy for me. But it still feels like there’s some hate there.”

Dylan makes a noise, something between a grunt and an exasperated sigh. “Davo. Honestly. Did you see her exit interview? Jack doesn’t hate you, she hates _herself_.”

And that statement is like an elephant kicking him in the ribs. That always seems like something so far out of the realm of possibility when it comes to Jack. She’s the most confident person he knows, with the hard work and the skills to back it up.

But the flip side of that coin is a relentless drive to keep pushing, paired with a whole lot of self-blame when nothing turns out right. Connor knows that all too well.

“She just needs you to be there, bud,” Dylan continues. “So be there. She’ll come around. In the meantime, just practice and get ready for playoffs.”

“Thanks Dyl.”

Some of that worry still lingers though, because Ryan takes one look at him in the locker room and pulls him out into the corridor. “Everything all right, Davo?”

He can’t help it - the story comes tumbling out again, complete with Dylan’s input. “I know I need to give her space…”

“And you should. Don’t do anything until she’s ready otherwise you’re just going to make things worse.” She smiles ruefully. “Ebby’s kind of like that, sometimes. Hallsy’s better at aggressively cuddling him out of those kind of funks, but I don’t think that would work with Jack.”

“I just...I feel like I have to fix it, you know?”

She pats his shoulder. “Of course I do. It sucks when someone you love is hurting like that. But this is just one of those cases where you need to wait it out. Okay?”

Their advice is sound. It still makes him chafe a little, though. “Okay.”

“In the meantime, put that brain of yours to work on other things. Like getting us through to the second round.” Ryan beams. “Playoffs, baby!”

Hockey. He can think about hockey. “Playoffs,” he repeats, then laughs when Ryan grabs him in a hug and then skips back into the locker room.

* * *

She can’t bring herself to go to the game, even when Connor tentatively brings up the subject of going with Taylor Hall to sit with the families. “Or you know, in the stands, like you did at the All-Star Game. Maybe you’ll make friends again,” he tries to joke. Even the memory of that doesn’t bring a smile to her face, and she’d had so much fun chirping him from the stands in LA.

The thought of going to his building, of being recognized, of the pitying looks and worse, the words unsaid ( _guess we really did win the lottery_ ) makes her want to puke. With the way she’s feeling, she’d probably get into a fight and that’s the last thing either of them needs right now. So Jack just shakes her head and manages to croak out, “Not tonight,” and closes her eyes so that she can’t see how she’s hurt him again.

What she does is go to the nail salon with Ryan. Or rather, Ryan marches into the apartment after breakfast and more or less drags Jack out. “I’m not-” she begins.

“You don’t need to talk if you don’t want to, honest.” Ryan’s hands are gentle but firm, and even though Jack could very easily shrug her off, she doesn’t. “I just need someone to go with me who’s not, you know. A guy.” She grins as she starts the car. “Besides, we’re not Segs or Steph, or even Dani. How often do we do this kind of thing?”

Jack has to concede that point. Sometimes Jessie will drag her to a salon for sister bonding time over the summer, but that’s about it.

The place Ryan picks is tucked away into a strip mall. Either no one recognizes them or they simply have the tact not to say anything. Ryan, as promised, doesn’t start up a conversation and just plops a stack of magazines between them as their technicians get to work. Jack picks a sparkly silver polish for her hands and feet because team colors are still a no-no and the glitter makes her feel a little better, somehow.

Ryan, of course, goes for neon orange and it’s super gross. Even she wrinkles her nose a little bit at just how obnoxious the shade is but shrugs philosophically. “It’s just nail polish, it comes right off.”

Jack snorts and Ryan smiles back before pushing her phone over to show a photo Dani’s sent of her kids being incredibly adorable, as usual.

It’s just nice. Nicer than she expected. Ryan doesn’t press, doesn’t prod, and just takes her silence at face value. So while it’s not particularly easy, it doesn’t hurt her to look at Ryan when she drops her off and say, with all sincerity, “Good luck tonight. I’m rooting for you.”

“Thanks Eichs.” She waves cheerfully. “See you around, all right?”

It was relaxing, and something she didn’t know she needed, but it’s not enough to get her to the game. Still, she climbs into bed while Connor’s just getting ready for his pre-game nap, wraps her arms around him, and buries her face in his back. “Kick ass,” she mumbles.

He twines his fingers with hers and brings their hands up so he can press a kiss to her palm. “I promise.” Then, because he’s a shit: “Nice nail polish. Very disco ball.”

“Go the fuck to sleep.” But she’s smiling a little as she says it.

* * *

 

And then Taylor Hall appears. There’s no other word for it, he simply marches into the apartment (and Jack has to wonder if everyone on the Oilers, past and present, has access to Connor’s apartment - who’s next, Gretzky?), beer and video games in hand.

“Uh-” she begins.

“You and me, Eichel,” he declares, slumping right onto the couch next to her. “Beer. Video games. Specifically, Rocket League.”

“It’s not even noon.” The excuse is pathetic even to her ears, so she doesn’t blame him for the unimpressed look he sends her way. He looks better than she would have expected, but then again he has a husband and wife to sex up and that’s really not an image she needed, thanks brain.

In all seriousness, she wonders how he’s handling it, balancing the pride in his partners with the bitterness of knowing they’ve done this without him rather than with him. Her situation is crappy, yes, but it has nothing on his.

And yet she knows he was sitting with the families last night, cheering on Ryan and Jordan despite everything. Hell, she saw it on TV, and heard the crowd go absolutely nuts when he looked up at the big screen and waved.

Well, if he found his peace with beer and video games, the least she can do is give it a go. She looks at Taylor for one long moment and he looks back, just as steady. “No talking?”

He snorts. “Ebby and Nuge are the ones who like to talk things to death, not me.”

“Yeah. Okay.” She trots into the kitchen to grab a bottle opener. “I hope you’re prepared to lose. I’m awesome at Rocket League.”

“Ooooh, fighting words, Eichel. Fighting words.”

They are well and truly plastered by the time Connor gets back from practice. He hangs back for a moment and just watches them, a little taken aback but intrigued. Jack’s looser than he’s seen her in days, weeks even, laughing and cursing at Taylor, shoving at him and not even blinking when he shoves back. Part of him is a little resentful, but he’s glad that someone’s getting through to her, even a little bit.

Even if it’s not him.

“Oh good.” He jumps a little bit when Jordan appears at his back. “Looks like things are going well.”

“You knew this was going to happen?”

Jordan shakes his head. “Not really. He just texted me and Nuge saying, and I quote, ‘I’m off to cheer up the grumpy cat.’”

Connor can’t help but chuckle a little. “There’s a little bit of a resemblance.” He finds it endearing, even when he’s on the receiving end of it.

“I’m on the ceiling, I’m on the ceiling, I’m going to score, I’m going to score,” Jack chants, then shrieks in outrage when Taylor physically rams into her.

“Like hell you are! I can go on the ceiling too!”

“Yeah, but I’ve got the ball. SCISSOR KICK!”

“YOU CAN’T SCISSOR KICK, YOU’RE A CAR.”

“WATCH ME, FUCKER.”

Jordan chuckles. “They’ll be a while. Hallsy takes Rocket League seriously. Food?”

“Take out?” Connor asks in response, not looking away from the loose line of Jack’s shoulders.

“Sure, Casanova,” Jordan snickers. “Just don’t expect them to surface any time soon.”

“They always come up for food,” Connor replies, then pushes off the wall. “Pasta. Does that Italian place do take out?”

He grins. “I’m sure if we drop your name, they will.”

Connor shoves him as they head out, unaware of Taylor’s eyes on them. Forty-five minutes later, both his phone and Jack’s go buzzing across the coffee table.

_food’s here if you’re into that kind of thing._

Jack glances down and shrugs. “I guess we do need food.”

“Yeah, probably,” is the easy reply. When he glances over at her, his gaze is a little too steady and not-drunk for her comfort. “It’s hard to hate yourself when you know how much they love you.”

It’s so far out of left field that Jack can’t help but blurt out, “That’s not it at all.” In her mind, the fact that Connor loves her has nothing to do with this funk. It’s getting him hurt and she hates that, but this is on her. She has to be the one to drag herself out of this, not him. It’s simply not his responsibility despite what they are to one another.

Taylor just nods and gets to his feet, holding out a hand to help her up. “I know.” Astonishingly enough, he really does seem to get it. “Just something to think about. Now come on, let’s eat.”

* * *

Game Two does it. _Connor_ does it, though perhaps not in the way he expected. She watches from his couch again, still not up to watching with Taylor, who has somehow become her weird playoffs buddy. He’s been making noises about going to Coachella and she gives him _so much_ shit for that during their second session of beer and Rocket League.

Anyway. It’s a known fact that Jack’s hockey gets Connor going. She’s not exactly immune to his, either, and there’s something about him  that has her sitting straighter and straighter as the game goes on. Kassian’s determination is lighting one hell of a fire under the rest of his teammates and as time ticks down they just keep getting better.

Then he nabs the puck on a breakaway, shorthanded just like Kassian’s goal in the second, shooting up the ice as the Rogers Center screams itself hoarse for him. Jack is on the edge of the couch, eyes locked on the screen. “Shoot. Shoot, Davo, shoot.” No one else is in the right spot, she can see that clear as day.

Just as clear is San Jose’s expectation that he’s going to pass. All the possibilities rush through her, the lanes that would seem closed to anyone else but are wide open to her and she knows, she _knows_ to him as well.

His head goes up and the puck follows, snapping between Vlasic’s tripod to bury itself in the net past an absolutely stunned Jones.

“Fucking right!” Jack shrieks, jumping to her feet and doing a little dance in front of the coffee table as Connor cellys on screen. And just like that, the last lingering bits of anger and self-pity melt away because they have no place here.

It’s his time, and like hell if she’s not going to be there at his side.

Jack flops back onto the couch, her fingers reaching for her phone. _what a fucking shot,_ she posts to the girls’ chat.

 _there she is,_ Dylan writes. _welcome back._

 _thank fuck._ That’s Tyler. _u were getting so out of hand._

She scowls. Her friends are the biggest assholes, honestly. _I’m here, aren’t I?_

_u better be, cuz davo’s moping was getting pretty pathetic._

_oh, for...it’s fine. I’M FINE. I’m done, I’ve got him. Happy now?_

_yup._ Dylan sends a thumbs up and an angel emoji, while Tyler sends a laughing emoji.

She fires off a text to him as the Oilers finish up the game (and a fucking shutout, she cannot believe it). Nothing big or fancy, but she knows he’s going to get it nonetheless. _fucking finally._ In the postgame, he’s endearingly giddy, bubbling over with praise for Kassian and full of optimism for the rest of the series.

Basically, her boyfriend is the biggest dork to ever dork and she loves it.

She doesn’t even give him a chance to breathe when he comes back. Jack presses him into the door, kissing him slow and deep and filthy. Connor makes an inarticulate sound, dropping his bag to the floor and immediately getting his hands into her hair, his fingers twisting through the strands to try and get her closer.

Oh yes, Jack’s definitely missed this. “About fucking time you made that shot, Mr. I-Pass-First,” she teases.

Connor chuckles and bumps his nose against hers. “I try.”

There’s so much warmth in his voice. For a moment she can’t look at him, her fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “Thanks for waiting.”

“I would say I’d wait forever, but you’d just punch me,” he laughs, the sassmaster. Jack punches him anyway.

“Sap.”

* * *

Jack honestly cannot say how this happened, but it did. She’s at Coachella with Taylor, and so far it seems to be breaking hockey social media.

“I don’t know if I should be offended,” she tells him as they peruse some of the truly ridiculous festival food. She can just hear her nutritionist having heart palpitations. “I mean, it’s not like we hate each other.”

Taylor just grins, eyebrows wiggling. “Some people have figured it out though,” he remarks, showing her the comment on his Insta that reads: _are you guys bonding over your so’s being in the playoffs????_

She scoffs. “We’re just bonding, period.”

He laughs brightly and hip-checks her. “That we are, Eichs, that we are.”

Connor, Ryan, and Jordan had been affectionately bemused at the entire situation. “You don’t have to go along with Hallsy, you know,” Connor told her.

“Yeah, but what else are we going to do while you’re in San Jose? Might as well have some fun, though I’m _not_ going to wear what passes for clothing over there.”

“Not even a flower crown?”

It’s an emphatic no on the flower crown, though she think’s Taylor’s not far away from caving and getting one for himself. If he does, she’s going to take _so_ many blackmail photos.

They both shelled out a stupid amount of money to leave Edmonton early on Saturday because Taylor _was not going to miss Lady Gaga, Eichs!!!_

Basically, Taylor Hall is ridiculous. Jack orders a grilled cheese with filet mignon because it’s somewhat better than the cereal covered waffle monstrosity he’s holding. It’s okay though. He’s not a terrible musical festival companion, especially on the last day as they just wander around from venue to venue, enjoying the music and hard core judging the other festival goers. The Sunday night concerts are a little hard because they’re both tracking the games on their phones while hoofing it from one stage to another.

She finally puts up a photo on her own Insta, one of the two of them with Lorde in the background, captioned, _I guess this guy isn’t so terrible._

Tyler gives her endless shit about being replaced by Taylor, which amuses her to no end.

 _Blip._ Taylor frowns down at his phone. “Why is Segs bitching at me about trying to steal you?”

Jack has to stop walking, bracing her hands on her knees as she laughs so hard she’s wheezing.

After the festival, they make their slow way back to LA because there’s no real reason to hurry back to Edmonton - even with their late flight on Tuesday, they’re going to arrive before the team. The anonymity they have in LA is amazing and Jack positively revels in it. Taylor does too, although she thinks New Jersey has to be better than Edmonton in regards to being recognized.

Tuesday’s game is a shitshow from start to finish and once again they’re glued to their phones, dissecting the game and trying to figure out what the hell’s going wrong from the restaurant to the airport.

“These lines aren’t working, what’s Todd thinking?” Taylor exclaims, throwing his hands up and frightening the people sitting beside them as they wait to board.

Jack doesn’t know, but she can see the mounting frustration on Connor’s face, the determination and yes, desperation in every drive to the net that just falls a little short. It makes him somewhat reckless and she can’t help but chuckle to herself when he ends up in the box.

Taylor slouches a little lower in the chair and crosses his ankles. “Looks like it might be a shutout,” he observes. “You know how he’s going to be.”

She does, actually. Because as the game drags on and still nothing happens for the Oilers, it’s not irritation or misery on his face. It’s pure temper. This is Connor McDavid with a fire under his ass and it means things are about to get spectacular. Not in San Jose, unfortunately, but she knows with absolute certainty that Game 5 is going to be pretty damn spectacular. She’s banking on it.

Angry Connor is something to behold, fierce and tenacious and easily goaded. A thrill goes down Jack’s spine at the thought of all that intense laser focus being centered on her and well. She’s not above taking advantage of that.

It’s definitely going to be a wild series. And she’s going to be there every step of the way.

**Author's Note:**

> This mostly happened because we saw Jack's interview from clean-out day and had emotions.
> 
> AND NOW THE OILERS ARE MOVING ON TO ROUND TWO. Even more emotions.
> 
> As always, we're on [Tumblr](http://wonthetrade.tumblr.com) to scream about our babies and hockey.


End file.
